They Call Me Naughty Lola

by David Rose

  Gynotikolobomassophile (M, 43) seeks neanimorphic F to 60 to share euneirophrenia. Must enjoy pissing off librarians (and be able to provide the correct term for same). Box no. 4732.

  In all organisms, the precise control of the expression of the many thousands of genes comprising their genomes is essential for correct development, growth and function. That’s the rule, now meet the exception. Man, 43. Sharks in the gene pool, cell dysregulation and DNA-a-go-go with button-down, beardy biochemist. Divide and proliferate inappropriately at box no. 5809.

  I pull all the right levers and push all the right buttons, all in the correct order, and still my computer produces this loser of an advert. Fortunately my Tyneside jambalaya will save me (M, 43), and you (M to 50), from having to worry about anything more technological than bits of crabstick between my teeth. Pick guitar, fill fruit jar and be gay-o3 at box no. 4566.

  Boanthropist (M, 34) seeks bovine woman with udders and bell. Box no. 7986.

  Seismic geometry is number forty-three in my list of vices. Name one other and I’ll marry you. Pleading, needy, yet resolutely square M (38) WLTM any female who isn’t my mother. Box no. 7553.

  M, 34, WLTM F to 30 able scientifically to prove the validity of the ten-second rule concerning dropped food. Box no. 9713.

  Computer scientist currently researching denotational semantics, maps programming and relationships between linear lambda-calculi and their models. I bait you, I lure you, then I reel you in like the fish you are. M (that’s Dr M, girlfriend), 36. Box no. 6843.

  Just how useful are radioisotopes in determining your ideal partner? Reply to amphetamine-fuelled love professor (M, 81) immediately to take the test of your lifetime. Box no. 5390.

  Know your thermocouple accuracy table, then love me like the fool you are. Geo-sex daddy of the rhodium-refining world (M, 62) seeks practically anyone. Anyone at all. I mean it. Please. Anyone. Box no. 7809.

  Nothing in this world makes sense. Apart from Sphenodon punctatus, last survivor of the reptilian order Rhynchocephalia. If only there were a woman like it–cold, efficient and brutal in love, but also able to feed off small animals, inhabit the breeding burrows of certain small petrels and be in possession of a vestigial third eye. Zoologist, M (51), possibly a little too close to his work. And his mother. Box no. 8643.

  Male otolaryngologist (39) seeks woman with normal-shaped head. Box no. 7598.

  Come on everybody! C-C-C-Come on everybody! Lecturer in Linguistics and Philosophy (M, 38) seeks F to 35 with interests in the subfield of morphosyntax and theories of distributed morphology. Replies, and details of major published works, please, to Jive Bunny, J-J-J-Jive Bunny,4 box no. 4332.

  Researchers at the Australian NationalUniversity recently employed a technique called electromagnetically induced transparency, in which a beam of laser light puts the atoms in a solid sample into a state in which a signal light pulse can be trapped. They succeeded in stopping light for more than one second. Despite this remarkable advance in science and technology, I still can’t get a man. If you can explain why in 2,000 words or less, I’ll share my ideas for nuclear toast extraction with you. And possibly have sex. Woman, 41. Intelligent, austere and mentally-troubled like all good forty-something women should be. Box no. 7532.

  Only the good die young. And sea-monkeys. Providing you flush them. Reclaim those years of bitter disappointment, waiting for the turgid little insects of your life to blossom into entertaining webbed-toed critters, with good, honest cephalopod (35). Underwater kingdom and X-ray specs available from box no. 5789.

  Not allowed to compete in the 2004 RoboCup Robot Soccer World Cup5 with his team of bionically improved cats, computer geek and amateur biomechanic (M, 32) seeks woman to 30 with knowledge of advanced humanoid circuit systems to assist in the building of electronic water-loving mammal capable of writing children’s fantasy fiction (or The RobOtter Potter-Jotter®, to use the project’s full name). Must also have large bust. No loons. Box no. 8677.

  They all laughed at Christopher Columbus. Freelance astronomer (male, 47) can prove the universe is shaped like a big egg. All he needs is the love of a good woman, and £40,000. Cheques and billets-doux to box no. 3719.

  Behold the Polymath of Love. Don’t get too near, though, because you’ll trigger my nervous asthma. Man (34). Box no. 5478.

  I once came within an ace of making my own toothpaste. Man, 36, seeks woman with knowledge of fluoride compounds/tantric love-making. Box no. 5987.

  1 Kerplunk: family game in which contestants have to take turns to remove straws from a plastic tube without dropping any of the marbles suspended above. First released by the Ideal toy company in 1967. Buckaroo: game consisting of a spring-loaded plastic mule. Contestants take turns to load the mule with various gold-mining items. The loser is the player who triggers the spring action, causing the mule to kick off any items loaded on to its plastic saddle. First released by Milton Bradley Games in 1970. Twister: described as ‘sex in a box’ on its first release by M.B. Games in 1966, Twister became hugely popular after being featured on US television’s The Tonight Show, on which Eva Gabor joined Johnny Carson in a game. Contestants play on a large plastic sheet covered with big coloured circles. A board with a spinning wheel is used to determine where players must place each hand and foot, often with players collapsing on one another. Requires two or more players. None of these games uses batteries.

  2 Area of the brain involved with language-processing, speech production and comprehension.

  3 Taken from the song ‘Jambalaya’ by country singer/songwriter Hank Williams. In 1952 Jo ‘GI Jo’ Stafford’s cover reached number eleven in the UK charts.

  4 Jive Bunny and the Mastermixers. Pop act that used sampling techniques and synthesisers combining with classic swing tracks. Had three consecutive number ones in the UK between July and December 1989.

  5 International project to promote artificial intelligence. The first official games were held in Nagoya, Japan, in July 1997.

  “Vodka, canasta,

  evenings in,

  and cold, cold

  revenge”

  My favourite Ben & Jerry’s is Acid-Boiled Bones of Divorce Lawyer. They don’t yet make it, but, damn, I can taste its sweet, sweet ice-creamy softness already. Bed-sit-living doctor (M, 54). Box no. 6321.

  Your stars for today: a pretty Cancerian (35) will cook you a lovely meal, caress your hair softly, then squeeze every damn penny from your adulterous bank account before slashing the tyres of your Beamer. Let that serve as a warning. Now then, risotto? Box no. 7394.

  In the next Saul Bellow1book, the hero dies in the end. Spoiler of plots (ex-fiction-reviewer, working my way up to children’s TV, M, 62) WLTM woman impressed by collections of badly-received proof editions. Who knows what tomorrow brings? I do–this tale ends with your falling hopelessly in love with me until I have another affair and you stab me mercilessly through the heart with the plastic spork2 you kept from our first meeting (it was at a Spudulike3 in Gloucester; you had chicken supreme and I had the chilli-non-carne vegetarian option). Box no. 6213.

  Save it–anything you’ve got to say can be said to my lawyer. But if you’re not my ex-wife, why not write to box no. 5377. I enjoy vodka, canasta, evenings in, and cold, cold revenge.

  The last thing I want to do when ending our relationship is meet up at Waterstone’s Piccadilly to muse about the fun we had–mine’s a skinny mocha latte–but now it’s time to move on–and can I have a Danish with that, please? Either we end it in a coffee bar in Milan–and you get the bill (including flights and transfers)–or we don’t end it at all. F, expects no emotional commitment from you, so don’t think I’m bothered by your lack of attention and over-devotion to your work/friends/TV. Break my heart, then leave me–you’re no different from the others. Fun, fun, fun at box no. 8321.

  ‘I was in the war, you know.’ This and other tales of mind-numbing emptiness from incontinent father (81) of ‘ungrateful turd’ of a son (46) stupid enough not to cha
nge the locks on his Barnstead semi back in 1991 when his wife and kids were still with him and nursing-home saving schemes had yet to go tits-up. Kick me at box no. 4190.

  Synopsis: thirty-something man places lonely heart in literary magazine. He gets a couple of replies, none of them really worth considering, until one day a scented letter arrives. He opens it, not really expecting much, but is surprised to find a few brief paragraphs that genuinely touch him. Could this be the one? She sounds perfect–is roughly the same age as him, well educated, attractive, cultured (likes theatre, travel, poetry-reading), and is as enthusiastic about cookery as he is. They decide to meet up and sure enough they have a great time; he invites her back to his Oxford apartment, and after a few liaisons, some crazy love-making and waking up a few Sundays together to stare at the oak trees through the bedroom window they decide to move in together. Here’s the twist: only at this juncture–when his Santana and King Crimson4 albums have mysteriously turned up at the local Oxfam shop and his Japanese film poster collection has been replaced with pictures of sad clowns–does he discover that at some point in her life she’s had her brain removed by aliens and had it replaced with rabid ants. Sound familiar? Then join me, 34-year-old man with recent spinal injuries from having to spend the last six weeks on his own two-seater sofa in his own apartment while crazy lady enjoys the sort of sleep that only lithium5 can invoke in his own king-size bed. Box no. 7278. References essential. Also full medication history.

  If my Christmas present this year is a gift subscription to History Today I’m going to be pissed off. Then I’m going to get pissed. Then I’m going to divorce you. You know who you are. Perfume, lingerie, nice womanly things, please, to your wife at box no. 6824.

  They should get a divorce lawyer to sponsor this column. After all, it’s paid for by the blood, sweat and tears of the beaten, dejected, lost and all-too-often twice-married. Twice-married man (51, Shropshire). Beaten, dejected, lost. Hoping to win use of a divorce lawyer. Box no. 8717.

  Did you know that 82% of maleLRBreaders are deadly ninja assassins? I’m not one of them, however, because my kung fu is of an older school, whose secrets are known only to a select few. Not only can I summon chi demons with a whisper, but also I live in my parents’ spare room and harbour impotent revenge fantasies against my ex-wife’s lawyer. This latter move is known in ancient kung fu circles as ‘mardy locust’. Let me teach you its deadly glare. Pathetic man, 41. Harrow. Box no. 9768.

  Box no. 0408. I missed my period. Box no. 7546.

  A girlfriend isn’t a girlfriend unless she makes my mother cry with grief every time she visits. For two years now she’s sat, contented, in front of the TV with not a care in the world. That’s where you come in. Professional M, 38, seeks heartless common slut with no small knowledge of sheltered-housing application procedures. Basingstoke. Box no. 7442.

  Summer, 1974. Everybody was kung fu fighting.6 Not me, I was revising the sociology of Paulo Freire. Who’s laughing now, sixth-formers of Sherbourne Fields School, Coundon? Mortgage-free M and perennial Friends Reunited7 outcast. Box no. 2776.

  All I need is the air that I breathe and to love you.8 And a five-door saloon (fully air-con). And a minimum income of £55K per annum. And two holidays a year (Latin America plus one other of my choosing). If you can meet these requirements, apply to ‘Evil Dragon Lady, Breaker of Men’s Constitutions’ (37), box no. 3685.

  Put me anywhere but next to him. Or her. And I haven’t said a word to them since 1987. Divorced woman, 58. The single most difficult relative to sit at weddings. Give it your best shot, but for Christ’s sake straighten your tie first, at box no. 7535.

  1 Author and winner of the 1976 Nobel Prize for Literature. Died 5 April 2005, some years after this ad was submitted.

  2 Plastic eating implement comprising a fork and a spoon in a single device.

  3 Fast-food outlet specialising in potatoes.

  4 Progressive rock band, formed 1969.

  5 See p. 36, n. 1.

  6 ‘Kung Fu Fighting’: single released by Carl Douglas in 1974. Reached number one on both sides of the Atlantic and sold nine million copies.

  7 UK internet-based service whereby users can measure their own success in life by assessing the comparative failures of their school colleagues.

  8 From ‘The Air That I Breathe’ (Hammond/Hazlewood). Single released by the Hollies, January 1974. Reached number two in the UK charts. The music was utilised by UK pop combo Radiohead on the 1993 single ‘Creep’, which lists Hammond and Hazlewood in the song’s credits.

  “They call me

  naughty Lola”

  Defeat is unthinkable. So too are those curtains with that sofa. Interior designer and gay lieutenant in the Army of Love (37). I’ve faced more battles than you’ve had hot dinners, Private, and I’ve never once thought of buying slip-ons. Polish your buttons and dismantle that twisted-willow arrangement at box no. 2486.

  67-year-old disaffiliated flaneur picking my toothless way through the urban sprawl, self-destructive, sliding towards pathos, jacked up on Viagra and on the look-out for a contortionist who plays the trumpet. Box no. 2179.

  Not everyone appearing in this column is a deranged cross-dressing sociopath. Let me know if you find one and I’ll strangle him with my bra. Man, 56. Box no. 3221.

  Dress up like a Viking and join me (M, 51) in my York farm-dwelling. Not only will we experience crazy Jorvik mud-love, but we’ll get Local Heritage Initiative grant funding. Have cake–eat it. All at box no. 2187.

  Enigmatic-looking woman, 52–imagine John Sutherland1 in a bra. It doesn’t describe what I look like, but it does give an insight into my evening distractions. Please help. Box no. 3573.

  Mimi, 64, WLTM man whose first name is composed entirely of Roman numeral letters. You must also have a degree in advanced mathematics and be very well endowed. Box no. 2486.

  LRBpersonals are the new dogging. As usual I’m at the back of the car-park with an empty thermos and a broken torch. Make the winter nights shorter and warmer by replying urgently to Thinsulated2 M, 43, Worcs. Box no. 2579.

  Mid-fifties man. Recently discovered guilt. Can’t wait to try it out. Box no. 7297.

  Poet, M, 32. My career demands you break my heart. It also demands you buy all the drinks and have lots of strange sex with me. I’ll give you an acknowledgement in my next volume, so it’s not an entirely unrewarding relationship. Box no. 1873.

  LRBpersonals took my life and drained it into a bottle of Bell’s to be poured down my neck every morning, noon and night. Now I’m back! And kicking up a storm in chiffon and feathers! Join me in my bijou Kingston pied-à-terre for a chorus line of two (I’m the opener–M, 38; you’re the encore–private detective to 60 with some experience of wide-angle photography). Box no. 8542.

  Slut in the kitchen, chef in the bedroom. Woman with mixed priorities (37) seeks man who can toss a good salad. Box no. 7421.

  Shot by both sides3 –failed bi-curious experiment (M, 34) seeks Home Counties third alternative for nights of thinking about sex, but mostly spent reading. It’s always time for cocoa and Jenga in the awkward silence of box no. 2196.

  The only thing that makes me happy is weeping in front of the television whilst wearing mother’s clothes. That, and jazzercise.4 M, 42. There’s always time for guilt, Newsnight, and a good abs workout in the tortured juvenile psyche of box no. 2366.

  Aber aus dem Mantel liess das Verhängnis ein stahlhartes Gehäuse werden.5 Wait ’til you see my nightie. Man, 35. Box no. 5221.

  I am Mr Fantabulous! You are Nurse Twill. Tonight I will be administering the medicine, and you will be my very willing patient. Gay dresser (51) seeks fashion catastrophe to 60 for evenings of making those awful Susannah and Trinny women choke on their own jealous mauve bile.6 Box no. 2187.

  Technically, by writing this ad, I’m breaking the terms of my probation. Technically, though, I’m not really a woman either. Two wrongs always make a right in the mixed-up, muddled-up, security-tagged and banne
d-from-most-Croydon-shopping-centres world of box no. 3692.

  My ideal woman is a man. Sorry, mother. Box no. 6221.

  Click here to sign my guestbook. Amateur nude photographer and Ostend bi-curious swinging M (53) would like to hear your comments as long as they don’t include the following: ‘photographing from a small height or ladder minimises double chins and shows faces better’; ‘keep backgrounds simple and uncluttered’; ‘sun over shoulders often provides the best natural light, especially morning and late-afternoon sun’; and ‘use good lenses and fresh batteries’. Box no. 3121.

  Baste me in butter and call me Slappy. No, really. M, 35. Box no. 3175.

  It takes a real man to wear a dress. It takes a revolutionary to wear those shoes with that blusher. Box no. 3194.

  Less Venus in Furs,7more Derek in Buxton. Interested? Write to Derek in Buxton. Box no. 6385.

  I have nothing to offer readers of theLRB, other than my expertise in classical literature. Oh, and a Prince Albert.8 Man, 51. Box no. 6210.

  I have known only shame. Then, last week, I experienced surprise. Man, 37. Box no. 4126.

  They call me Naughty Lola. Run-of-the-mill beardy physicist (M, 46). Box no. 4023.

  I am not afraid to say what I feel. At this moment in time I feel anger, giddiness, and the urge to dress like a bear and forage for berries at motorway hedgerows. Man, 38. Box no. 3632.

  Doorman at the swingers’ party of life. Peripheral figure, 43, holding out for more than a left-over goody bag and a handshake. Coruisk.9 Box no. 4221.